Reflections
by Eleas
Summary: (9/14 update, Chapter 3!) During the time of turmoil, many were forced to flee. A few escaped. Others did not. This is the story of one of the unlucky ones.
1. Prologue

This story is an experiment for me in more than one sense. I wrote the first chapter one late night, which is the prime reason for any errors. I got the idea of just writing whatever came into my head and running with it. It seems to have worked somewhat.

It is also the first story I post on Fanfiction.net. Though I am new, I am fairly conversant in what goes on here. So I'll say it straight. I want criticism.

Ah, I hear you say, "Is he mad?" No. I merely want your honest opinions on how to change my writing for the better. I'm not telling people not to post raving reviews - if you feel I deserve them, then I'll be the happiest guy alive - but please be honest about it. If I write bad stuff, I want to _know_. English isn't my first language; I need added proficiency.

Thank you for reading this little blurb and... enjoy the show. :)

  


* * *

Björn Paulsen, Malmö, Sweden


	2. Chapter One

The smell of dried blood mingles with orchids, strong. My drowsy smile turns to an expression of alarm.

Something is wrong, terribly so. I feel smothered as if by a great weight – sleep, but not only that. As my blurred eyes strive to focus, I experimentally flex my arms. The grime on my cheeks stings as sweat breaks out, from the heat this chamber, wherever it is. I am still in my clothes – whereever I had been a moment ago, I must have fallen asleep in a hurry.

_What am I doing here?_

My motions seem heavy, lethargic. It is as if I am wrapped in inertia, as if my body were immersed like an insect in some intangible but viscous liquid. And, as I fully take in the scene before me, I realize I'm in an upright position. No, things are most definitely not as they should be.

There is little in the way of illumination – my cell, for it must be called that, is cold, burnished durasteel, the pale light of my repulsor prison its sole source of light. The manacles encircle my throat, my ankles and my wrists, wreathed in trails of energy, keeping me afloat. I remember now. The hatch above me is the sole entrance or exit. And as my eyes slide over the flowers… I know who holds me now. Yes. 

Patience comes easy when one has the luxury of security. I do not. And striving with all my strength against the field does nothing, for there is nothing to strain against and nothing to break. So I remain in the center of the room, gently revolving in the air above my glowing podium. Floating. Immobile. Caught. And the fear simmers within me. I know it for what it is, but resistance is no small task – I am hungry, weary, and the drugs used to render me unconscious still cloud my mind.

Still, it is not until the metallic sound of bolts being withdrawn that I know true fear. Suppressing it is more than I can do now; I must hide it from my face entirely. Because the man descending on the repulsorlift platform toward me is one I recognize, and the fact that I can still fear him is good. It means my sanity has not yet fled, even when I did.

He steps off the platform, his feet lost in a swirl of dark fabric. His face is long, angular, and in the light I get the impression that his skin is sculpted, polished rock. Hard, unforgiving and unforgiven, so difficult to reconcile with the man I once knew. Harder still, the eyes; emerald, glinting in deep sockets. The hair is a dark spill, blending into the confines of the hood. I look at him and wonder if the darkness has already consumed him entirely.

"Alyra," he greets me without preamble. I know that voice almost more than I do him; it seems a throwback to older, safer times. Times and memories that seem far away now, phantoms that have no place on the dungeon ship Carnifex.

"Kellin." I can say nothing more. Everything has been said already. He does not know it, but inside, I'm not awaiting his words, his accusations, even his pleas. They mean nothing to me now when compared to an end to the running and the terror of death.

He looms before me now. Without having moved, his prescence fills the room. If I could shrink back, I would. But my bonds still hold me in their gentle, irresistable grip.

"Alyra. You were wrong to run." A ragged breath, then. "We were meant to be together. You said that to me. Made me see it. Together, always."

When I don't answer, he takes one step toward me. His face twists.

"Why won't you answer me? Will this be like last time? Must pain be my only path to saving you?" His gloved fist clenches. Even after everything he is still hesitant to hurt me, his anger turned to impotence. I know it will not last long, and so I attempt to stall him with the truth.

"Once there was a man known as Kellin Thorne. A brave man, a loyal friend, a man who saw the path of the Jedi as a way to help all.

"I met that man. I loved that man. I saw him die." 

He flinches. I know him so well, even what he has become; I can see how deep my words have affected him.

"He is still here." Kellin pauses, as if he's testing the words for truth. "Changed, but he's still the same man at heart."

Is it a spark of light in those eyes? I do not dare to hope. But still, I must know. "The Kellin I knew... he would never hunt his own kind. He would never oppress, exploit, murder. He would be dead rather than serve your master." 

"He isn't dead." His voice is almost choking now, and his cheek muscles are rigid with tension. "He came back for you."

"If you are him, then let me go."

That familiar face, floating in the shadow of the hood, clouds. When he answers, all hesitancy is gone. "No. Not now, not when I've found you. If only you had come with me from the beginning, none of this would have happened."

And weariness sweeps over me as I lower my head. "You still don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"That we wouldn't have been together even if that happened. That the only way for us to be what we once were... is if _you_ would follow _me_."

Silence is my only answer. Eventually, I raise my head. The hatch is closed, and, but for the smell of the flowers, the cell is empty.

As am I.


	3. Chapter Two

Death. It is all around me. The bulkheads constrict my breath, closing in on me, stoking my claustrophobia to new heights. I hover impotent, slowly turning like a sculpture of flesh, while the seconds crawl past.

Every now and then I perceive a far-off noise – screaming, pleading, the laughter of the insane. This ship should never have been brought into the world, never have been sent to travel between the stars. But it is frighteningly real, and I do not need any mystical power of the mind to sense the blood and the terror that has sunk into its very walls.

To truly be a prisoner one must forsake hope, and I have. Defeat begins in the spirit, and this ship was made for breaking spirits. Dwelling on my mistakes has become my sole way of passing time between the times when I'm sedated. Had I retained my sense of humour, I suppose I might well have commented on how flattering it is to rate security of this magnitude. But fear and exhaustion has a way of dulling your wit.

Immersed in the susurration of the force field generator, I attempt to calm my mind. Not knowing what drugs are in my bloodstream is not half as paralysing as simpler facts. I always thought I would be tough, difficult to crack. Now I know the folly of that particular bit of pride. I had cracked long before they found me. What happened afterwards was just peeling off the pieces.

Desperately, I close my eyes. My training is what is left now. I take a breath, slowly letting it out, allowing my inner self to imagine, to dream. I take another breath, ignoring the pounding of my heart, soothing it with mental commands.

_Imagine a meadow on Toprawa,_ I tell myself, fighting for calmness. _Taste the wind, the biting chill of early spring._ My memory obliges, slowly, yielding to my will. _You run, free, young again... the exhaustion you're feeling the pangs of faithful training. The other girls mostly behind you, for you are quicker than them and slow to tire. But now, you can relax, you can let go and allow tired muscles the chance to rest, to heal and grow stronger. You can even..._

...smell the sweetness of the flowers.

And they mean something to me, too much. Images now come unbidden. And at last I throw open my eyes to escape them, and all I see is the orchids, everywhere, which he would not let me forget, and my chest hurts from the throbbing of my heart.

Oh, for the power to quiet my mind. I am starting to go mad. This silence is endless but incomplete, broken by the persistent hum from my prison, whose continuing echo is like a tightening hand around my heart. And strain as I may my hands can't reach to cover my ears, and the manacles clamp at my wrists, and above it all is the sound of the repulsors tightening its grip around my heart. _I am going mad, a voice tells me,_ sobbing laughter in my head, and it is my own.

Footsteps, far away, intruding on my anguish, while I find that my ever-turning movement has left me to face away from the entrance. Sickly, I feel some warped sort of hope. If only it is Kellin, I might yet find a way to anger him past all reason. I cannot live like this, and to be his companion would be worse still.

I must feed his rage. He is powerful, and a monster, and I know the darkness in him will rob him of his senses until it is too late.

I want to die. Surely, on this ship of death, some can be found for me?

Let it be him. I hate him above all else now, but I would rather have my hatred than be lonely again. And I haven't seen him for so long. Please, let him come for me.

The whisper of a repulsorlift, and the sting of a needle pricking my neck.

Then nothing.


	4. Chapter Three

I wake slowly, my neck stiff, still aching. There is a bitter taste in my mouth, but as my mind clears, I do not experience the hysteria that came over me earlier. I sigh then, feeling somewhat drained, as if I've been crying until no tears were left. But my cheeks are dry.

I sigh again, the air leaving my lungs in a soft puff, the realisation dawning that I am no longer hungry, either. Almost feeling disappointed, I wonder how much of my hysteria was the result of drugs and dehydration. It is a painful possibility to consider, that I might have broken from basic interrogation techniques. 

The quiet rasp of breath from the other side of the room is like being struck by a live wire. 

Moments pass as the uncaring motion of my prison slowly reveals the sight before me. There is a cot at the far end, occupied, that was not previously there. Sprawled upon it is a thing beaten and bloody. My first impression of the victim is that, despite the sound I heard, he must clearly be dead. Blood, both dried and fresh, streaks his pale skin, cakes his hair, wells from his nostrils in a dark, wet brush stroke. His clothes are tattered, his right eye a swollen purple, and one arm hangs at an odd angle, obviously broken. I must have overlooked him just as I woke up, wrapped up as I had been by my own concerns.

Yet still he breathes. _Force help me, he is even stirring!_ Even for someone like me, who had her fill of horror and despair long ago, it is still possible to feel pity. _Does this make me weak?_, I wonder to myself, watching the blind groping of his hands. My throat feels swollen, and breathing is harder than it should be. _Is it good to feel these things, to feel at all? Am I fool enough to gift one doomed voyager of this ship with my concern?_ To survive as I have, I've had to learn how to steel myself, to harden my heart. So many have died, and this one will surely not be long.

_On the other hand,_ my inner voice slyly asks, _you are curious about him, aren't you?_

I do not talk to myself, and so I do not reply, but in my mind I allow as for how she does have a point. And so I sit and watch his struggles, with the odd commingling of fascination and guilt that comes from spying something macabre and being unable to look away. His motions grow more vigorous. A low keening escapes his blood-soiled lips. And, finally, one eyelid flutters open.

It takes several revolutions of my body for him to groan and raise himself to a half-sitting position. Two more turns I describe, while his singly unhurt eye clears and focus.

Then, in a bemused tone, "I dreamt of flowers." Though the voice carries pain, this statement is not at all what I had expected. For a moment, it hangs in the air.

"Yes," I find myself answering, while he studies the orchid flowerbeds. "Yes, I suppose you did."

"What is this place?"

"You are on the Imperial Dungeon Ship Carnifex," I soberly inform him. He is almost out of my field of vision now, but in my periphery, I see him trying to sit up. "This is a prison."

"They captured me?" 

"I would assume so. Are you in pain?"

"Some," he replies, still strangely calm. I face away from him now, but his voice betrays no hint of agony. Remarkable. The walls slowly drift by as my body turns, and I try to forget him. Soon he'll be dead, anyway.

"Gaine."

I start at his voice. What he said means nothing to me.

"Gaine Tyrth," he repeats, speaking carefully. "That's my name. What's yours?"

"I... my name is Alyra... Sarkin." The words come slowly, haltingly, to my lips. Something cold stirs in me as I find myself wondering about them. Somehow... they do not fit the person I have become.

I see him now. He's rising (_rising!_) from his cot, the blood now smudged across his upper lip and cheeks, lending him a frightening appearance. As if he knows this, he smiles at me reassuringly, not even wincing in discomfort. And, despite the welts and the bruises and the puffy eye, I suddenly realise that this Gaine has a handsome smile. 

"Now," he says lightly, doubtless intending to raise my spirits, "let's see if we can do something about your situation, my damsel in distress."

"I hesitate to disappoint you, but this is a flux restraint," I point out. "Freeing me would require a Warden's rank cylinder."

"Which I don't have," he concedes, approaching me. I frown. He is just a bit too unconcerned for a prisoner, just a shade too easy-going. This is no mere coincidence, I realise, and Gaine's presence no accident.

"You do, of course, have a plan for getting out?"

His eyes are unreadable as he paces, keeping pace with my rotation. "Now, how would a prisoner like me solve a huge problem like that?"

Gallant or no, I will not let this man play games with me. "My, you forgot to complain about your arm."

Gaine barely glances down at the twisted limb. His face looks up at me, eyes glittering in the ethereal light of my bonds. "I was planning on letting you out of the cell. But after that, you're on your own." Gaine's voice hardens. "So you better be able to answer my question, and solve that problem, because you're going to do it on your own. I came to do a job, and it's not rescuing you." His eyes drop, almost in embarrassment, as he kneels to inspect the flux generator. 

Absorbed, he scrutinises the glowing device at my feet, as I float above him, mulling this over. There seems to be no choice for me, and this could be a chance at freedom. But freedom to do what? Freedom to be hunted again? If that is my share of freedom, I might as well head for the closest airlock.

While there is a faint chance to survival with what obviously is a highly trained operative. What his game is I cannot imagine, and I do not see any point in trying to guess. 

"Let me come."

He does not look up. "I'm not surprised. The answer is still no."

"I can help," I insist, but the calm way I'm saying it must have intrigued him, because he finally looks at me.

"Help?" He smiles, but his gaze as he eyes my expensive clothes is suddenly uncertain. "What makes you think you can possibly be of any use to me?"

I have an answer for him, even if I wish I did not. But some things, like some people, cannot be left behind.

"On Toprawa, I was trained from childhood as an Antarian Ranger."

A slow smile spreads on his face, and I realise there is no need to explain anything about the Rangers, because he already knows.

His hand moves out of my sight. A beeping sound, and suddenly, I find myself suspended in air. Twisting, I instinctively adopt one of the falling techniques. My body is a wheel, and the ground is not my enemy.

I come up in a crouch, straining to stand as my muscles grow suddenly and painfully cramped. Gaine smirks, nodding in satisfaction at the performance. 

"Then we have a deal."


End file.
